Several wisps of her hair had been unable to stand the
excitement and were hanging down. The mauve bow had worked its way on
to one side--very nearly under her ear. There was no deceit nor any
pretence about her. She was the daughter of a washerwoman and a
greengrocer, and heredity had triumphantly asserted itself. Yet as he
backed towards the door before her fierce onslaught, Burton, for the
first time since this new thing had come, positively admired her.
"Ellen," he protested, "you are behaving foolishly. I wanted you and
the boy to understand. I wanted you to share the things which I had
found. It was the only way we could be happy together."
"Alfred and I will look after ourselves and our own happiness," she
declared, with a little gulp.
"Other women have lost their husbands. I can bear it. Why don't you
go? Don't you know the way out?"
Burton offered his hand. She frankly scoffed at him.
"I don't understand all that rigmarole about truth," she concluded, "but
I'm no sort of a one at pretense. Outside, my man, and stay outside!"
She slammed the door. Burton found himself in the street.
Instinctively he felt that her hasty dismissal was intended to conceal
from him the torrent of tears which were imminent.
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